


Warm Beings (running in circles, never leave me alone)

by ViolentlyRed



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Keith & Allura - Freeform, Keith & Coran - Freeform, Keith & Hunk - Freeform, Keith & Lance - Freeform, Keith & Pidge - Freeform, Keith & everyone okay, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) Needs a Hug, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith NEEDS sleep, Keith is falling apart, Keith is fragile, Team Feels, aftermath of Shiro disappearing for the second fucking time, but theres so much hurting oh man, but you can read it as ships, enough tags, everyone worries, except shiro coz hes fucking gone, found-family feels, go wild idgaf, keith cries, keith is hurting, literally everyone on the team is a good friend, plz read lmao, so this is set in season three, the angsty shit we all wanted in season 3, the team are very good friends, written platonically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:01:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentlyRed/pseuds/ViolentlyRed
Summary: He’s not good at this, he hasn't slept in two days, the search for Shiro is sickeningly futile, and he feels very, very lost. (He has no idea what to do with that feeling.)Or, Shiro is gone (again), the team worries, and Keith falls apart.A collection of "off days" in their extremity.





	Warm Beings (running in circles, never leave me alone)

**Author's Note:**

> Whoah. Five months later, and I'm finally ready. 
> 
> No lie, this was a mammoth of a piece for me, and I'm still not sure if I'm one-hundred percent happy with the way it turned out, but I think I know that it's time to let it go. 
> 
> This is literal hurt/comfort shit and so self indulgent it's not even funny. Basically what should have happened in season three. I genuinely don't even know if you'll be able to read it there's so much angst, jfc. 
> 
> oof but I worked damn hard on this puddle of angst, and I am proud that I'm finally posting it, so I hope y'all like it, be sure to let me know what you think.
> 
> Hold on tight, and here we goooo

 

 

 

The first time Shiro spoke to him is like an old film for his mind only--spotty and timeless, never to be forgotten, never to fade. ( _Keith hopes._ )

His teacher had called him to stay behind after class, and at the final bell of the day, Keith shuffled to the front of the room to stand in front of her desk like an inmate on death row. That’s what life was like back then for him, every day was one closer to the end.

He looked forward to the day he'd be out of the system, of course, but deep down it was almost like he didn't see himself making it that far. Like he wasn't meant to, not an expectation. Getting out wasn't a goal, it was something that might eventually happen should he choose to survive.

Again, it's not something he looks back on with fondness.

Shiro walked in as Keith made his way toward the front of the room, and his teacher dismissed herself to make some copies.

Keith looked at Shiro, scowled at his bright eyes and easy smile, how he looked at Keith like he saw something more than a scrawny kid lost in a system designed for failure.

Shiro then invited Keith to take a walk, which Keith begrudgingly agreed to.

And the rest is history.

Shiro got him out, got him into the Garrison, and then... well, and then Shiro left, and it fell apart, but Keith found him again, and they went to space.

And things happened.

And...

And now Shiro's gone, again.

So.

 

-

 

It's been three weeks or so and Keith supposes he’s exhausted. No one really says anything directly; they’re all under pressure. He doesn’t expect them to notice, but. Still. He knows that they know. And they know that he knows that they know.

Everybody knows.

The truth? He stopped sleeping that night, after Black came back empty, after the entire clusterfuck of a battle left them reeling and barely holding it together. From that day on, every time he goes into his room, every time he forces himself to lie down and close his eyes, it doesn’t work. He thinks about everything and nothing and his brain just doesn't. Turn. Off.

Frustrating? Incredibly. Surprising? Not really.

His face looks sallow when he looks at himself in the mirror. Bony and tired and sunken in, his skin looks pale and waxy and yellow. His fingers shake, a constant tremble that he can’t get rid of. He looks unhealthy, he looks sick.

He's not sick, just stressed. There's a hole in his stomach, a sore that eats away at him. Anxiety that makes his heart feel like it's dipped in acid, swelling doubt, tight frustration, day after day, night after night, mission after mission. He doesn’t really know how he’s made it this far, because it’s getting so bad, to the point where he only communicates in the form of verbal snapping, where food doesn’t look good, where relaxation is eons away and all he wants to do is sit down and cry.

To the point where Allura asked him where he got that black eye and he had to tell her that it was a dark circle, that he was just tired.

“You should rest, take a day off,” she said. “You don’t look well."

He had to bite his lip to keep the bitter smile off of his face. _If only it was that easy._

He envies her, truly, he envies the grace with which she handles all of her diplomatic work, how she--how she can just _pilot_ the blue lion, like it’s nothing, like it’s not wrong, like it’s meant to be. It’s _not_ \--Lance was Blue, and Keith was Red and Shiro, _Shiro_ was Black. Shiro was the Black Lion, not Keith.

_It’s not Keith._

C’est la vie. It’s fine. There’s nothing he can do to change it.

He’s noticed that lately, how he’s become so much more resigned. He doesn’t fight back at everything as much as he did in the past. It’s not worth it, it’s not worth the energy. He’s tired.

Desert Keith, Keith a year ago, lonely Desert Keith would have called BS on that right away. He would have told himself to pull it together, to not let anyone change him.

Desert Keith was so solitary. That was all he could afford to be.

Space Keith knows different. Space Keith thinks that Desert Keith might not have known as much as he thought he did.

He used to have this blanket. In the shack, his desert blanket. It was scratchy wool, but it was warm and it would tan in the sun for the day and always held a warmth to it when Keith wrapped himself in it each night, when the sands got cool and only the moon was there. When he passed out from either exhaustion or something else.

Even then he had trouble sleeping, and yes, it got really bad then, too. Nightmares, blistering dreams of longing and missing, ones where he would wake up and not feel whole. But he was alone, and all he could do was sit with himself and try to assume he wasn’t going crazy.

But this desert blanket, this ragged wool, he finds himself missing it sometimes, wanting it when he lies at night in his room. He misses the desert. He misses the warmth and the sepia plains and the rust-colored sand, the maroons and the beiges and the tans. Space is cold and distant. The desert would press itself into your hand, hold itself up and wrap your fingers in warm sands. Space seeps its way out of your grip, leaks through your fingers and swallows you in blankness and dark and ice until you’re nothing but frozen yourself.

As much as he dislikes Lance, he sometimes looks at his tanned skin and his brown hair and thinks of his wool blanket–the browned, tangible warmth that sat on his fingers dry. He thinks that it probably doesn’t help their already kind-of strained relationship, and it almost makes Keith resent him for being Cuban, which is fucked up in itself.

Keith isn’t racist, he’s just weary.

 

-

 

It’s at a dinner with all of these alien dignitaries that he finally snaps.

The table shakes and silverware rattles when he pushes his chair out and smacks his palms flat on the table. His knees are shaking, head buzzing. Everyone falls silent, all heads whip towards him, he feels something in his chest burst.

Keith yells, hoarse and astringent. The words taste like drain cleaner down his throat. He’s not good at this, he hasn't slept in two days, the search for Shiro is sickeningly futile, and he feels very, _very_ lost.

He has no idea what to do with that feeling.

So he finds himself breathing hard, panicking out of his mind on a shower floor

Everything is a little blurry, dimmed around the edges. He feels like he's dying. His clothes are drenched, water pours out over his head, although lukewarm, sending goosebumps all over his body. He breathes faster and throws up.

His throat burns and he can't breathe. The vomit is sour on its way back up, his stomach clenches and his lungs heave. He chokes.

“ _Jesus-_ ” someone fumbles around him and turns the water warmer. There's no air here, Keith’s vision is darkened, panic is thick in his throat, it’s so hard to breathe. His heart is beating so fast he can’t even hear it, he curls further into himself. _Deflect, deflect-_

“No- hey, hey, breathe.” A gentle hand guides his head between his knees, his fingernails scrabble on the grimy tile as his head and his heart and his lungs and his stomach all fail.

It’s Lance.

“Breathe slow with me. You’re okay.”

Keith literally can’t. He cannot breathe, his lungs feel like they’ve been flattened by a rolling pin, he cannot gulp in oxygen. If this is what dying feels like, then he severely underestimated the horror of it. He feels his wrist being pried off of its clamp on his knee by a warm hand and shoved against something solid and blood-warm and alive. Keith vaguely registers his wet fingers curling into the fabric of Lance’s tee-shirt against the hard muscle of a chest and a beating heart.

“Come on. It's okay, Keith. Like me, just like me. In and out, you’re okay.”

Keith’s head is still shoved between his knees, he feels only Lance’s presence and his exaggerated breaths in his chest cavity. He tries to mimic if only to make Lance go away.

_Please go away._

Lance stays persistent, resolute until Keith breathes like a person again. Keith wants him to leave.

Lance hesitates for a second and then pushes a wet chunk of Keith’s hair off his forehead in a move that is unabashedly fraternal at its root. He sighs almost sadly, like he was expecting this to happen, lets his hand wilt on Keith's shoulder and squeezes lightly. “You’re okay.”

Keith’s surroundings become a bit more discernable. The fluorescent and the howling of the shower head as water streams out, the grime of scummy shampoo clinging to the tile floor. Lance kneels next to the puddle of vomit, undeterred. He’s soaked, the water darkens his clothes and conforms the fabric to his lean muscles. His hands are steady and careful, brown eyes sharp and concerned, bangs plastered to his forehead.

It's all not very Lance-like.

Keith’s heart isn’t beating fast anymore, it just hurts. A sharp ache, like the first time he lost Shiro, the kind that had him sinking to his knees on the floor of his dorm - back then he was still at the Garrison - and watching his tears drop onto the glowing news message. He remembers the picture of the three of them - Matt, Shiro and Commander Holt - he remembers the sick feeling that burst in his stomach and the ache in his ribs as he tried to convince himself that it wasn't real, _wasn't real wasn't rea_ l.

It _was_ real, though, and now it's happened all over again.

“Keith. Talk to me, buddy."

Keith comes back to the moment and swallows harshly, takes in a shuddering breath. His chest is still constricted like he's waiting for the first big drop on a rollercoaster. Nausea settles dully in his abdomen and the lightheadedness has not gone away.

Lance tries again. His voice is warm against the tile walls, still holding a note of urgency but level and patient. "Are you okay? How--what are you feeling? Can you tell me what's going on?”

And he's so tired. Keith's so bitterly exhausted, he longs for whatever powers may be to have mercy on his pathetic self. At this point, rest and contentment sit planets away in another intergalactic wasteland with his missing mother and his dead father and a brother he’s lost yet again. He is destined to grow irate, things won't be okay for a very long time, and the blossoming ache deep in his stomach reminds him of that every chance it gets. All he can do is think _fuck fuck fuck fuck_ as he stands uselessly and watches everything unravel a little more.

The water splashes the floor like raindrops. Keith blinks at the tile with wet eyelashes and says pathetically, “Go away.”

Lance doesn’t move.

Keith sniffles. Everything hurts, his heart hurts, he's lost and alone and spent. The hole in his chest swells. He's so tired, he's _so_ tired, _he's so tired_.

Lance's eyes are concerned, there are drops of water on the edge of his jaw, beads running down his face. His tan hands are warm anchors, one on Keith's shoulder, one curled hesitantly in his own lap. He looks at Keith like he's waiting for him to speak, he watches like he's watching a fight, waiting for the next move, the next punch, the next fall.

Keith brings a wet hand up to his face and shudders with the first sob. He breathes it out harshly through his nose, it's desperate and weak and tarnished. He can't stop his ribs from heaving, his fingers from trembling against his face as he presses his palm to his lips, thumb curled above his nose. He lets his head fall down, breaking gaze, chin tilted to the floor as hot tears mix with the water running in lukewarm rivulets down his face. It feels a lot like his chest is being clawed open, he feels dizzy and sick and slightly hysterical as walls crumble to dust.

Lance's palm falters on his shoulder for a moment, but gentle hands pull him forward until his head is pressed against the dip in Lance's collarbone, until he can see the faded denim of Lance's wet jeans against the tile floor. A tepid hand falls on the back of his head, a sturdy arm settles around his back and his shoulders. Keith doesn't remember the last time he was this close to anyone, the last time he was held like this. He doesn't remember the last time he was this bare, bones laid out for the world to see, stripped of all defenses. He feels like a fresh wound, a dam burst, hurt leaking from holes in his soul poked with toothpicks of self-realization: _you can't keep it in any longer._

Keith still has a hand pressed to his mouth. Lance rubs his thumb along the damp skin at the base of Keith's neck and tightens his embrace.

Keith curls his fingers into Lance’s shirt and cries.

 

-

 

Two days later and Allura’s voice is sharp when she calls to him after training.

Keith stands there, bayard in hand, waiting for a scolding. The dinner incident hasn't been mentioned, played off like it didn't happen the next morning at breakfast, even though Keith's eyes were swollen and Lance was slightly quieter than usual. Comedy is a band-aid that fixes Team Voltron often, though, and Lance perked up quickly after a particularly riveting conversation about video games. And then Keith and Lance were back to normal like it hadn't happened. Allura seemed to frown and catch his eye often, though, so Keith is prepared for a stinging statement for his outburst.

She sighs and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, waiting to speak until everyone else is cleared out of the training arena. “Lance mentioned to me that you were having a rough time after the dinner the other night.”

Keith deflates and sighs through his nose. _Of course, Lance did_.

Allura looks at him pointedly. “He told me because he cares,” she says. "And because everyone else cares as well." She pauses and then looks at him a little gentler. Her eyes crease with some kind of hopefulness or understanding or something. “I just wanted to remind you that we’re all here for you if ever you need us.”

Keith bites his lip. She strikes a chord already tender in the aftermath of the days prior. “Yeah, thanks.”

And he knows. It's not like they haven't all vowed their camaraderie over and over again, he knows he's on a team, it's just hard.

And humiliating, honestly. He doesn’t want this to go around. That was the first time something like that had ever happened to him--at least to that extremity. He's tried to push it from his mind already; it still irks him when he thinks of how terrified he was and how immensely consuming those emotions were. Lance had called it a panic attack, Keith called it a fucking nightmare, because that's what it had felt like.

 A sharpened, insightful part of him knows that if he wants to be a decent leader, even half the one that Shiro was, then he can’t afford this kind of stuff happening. He hates being leader, though. It’s a position not meant for him, so really, why should he care?

Well.

...Because Shiro would.

And that, Keith supposes, is the root of it all.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Allura says. She furrows her brows and looks at him almost desperately. "Keith," she says when he doesn't answer, as if to assure him more that he's not a half-baked failure.

Keith pushes her off. _Abort, abort, redirect, redirect_. This is not something he wants to talk about.

He flexes his fingers. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Thanks for the concern, though.

" _Keith_." She catches his bicep as he turns away, grip steady and brow unfaltering. Her eyes catch the light of the room, she flashes a brief glimpse of exhaustion that resonates with Keith in the smallest twinge. He holds his ground, she speaks softer than before.

"Please, Keith. If you're feeling lost, please talk to us. We're here."

And that... is raw. Keith breathes out and lets the moment hang in the air. She's chipping away at a brick wall that's already crumbling.  "Okay, Allura," he says, not flippantly but in a pathetic effort to break the conversation as soon as possible.

“Good talk,” he hears her call optimistically over his shoulder as he walks away.

Keith flashes her a half-hearted smile and leaves to stare at the wall in his room for a while.

 

-

 

This time it's not even the day that Shiro got taken, but the night he disappeared when Keith was still in the Galaxy Garrison.

And Keith sees him, Keith can reach his arm out and Shiro's in his Kerberos gear but he has the white streak in his hair, and Keith's in a Garrison uniform and Shiro's stretching out his arm to reach him and if Keith can just _touch_ him, Keith can save him, Keith can stop everything if he could just touch him, he could _save Shiro-_

And he wakes up with a scream in his throat and his lungs filled with bricks, cheek and pillowcase soaked with tears, tee-shirt sticking to his back.

He pants there like he's ran four miles, fear and panic and grief clogging his throat like toothpaste. His head feels cottony, he watches his tears drip onto the sheets in his hands in dark, wet circles.

Heart beating out of his chest, he pressed his hand to his mouth and weeps.

 

-

 

Another day and Pidge nudges him awake.

“Hey. You missed dinner.”

He inhales gritty metal, oil and castle atmosphere and it takes him a second to realize where the hell he is, eyes adjusting to the light. Keith peels his cheek off of Black’s hard exterior; he must’ve passed out when he was trying to fix a nick in her invisibility shield.

Pidge perches next to him, elbow on knee, chin resting on her fist. Keith rolls his stiff neck and tries to blink the lingering bleariness out of his head. “Were you really sleeping?” she inquires, not unkindly, just Pidge.

There's no use in him lying. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She rocks back on her heels. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Keith swipes the back of a hand across his eyes. “Don’t be.” Even though there’s nothing he wants to do more than curl up again. He tries to push his shoulders down--the impromptu pillow wasn't the greatest.

She adjusts her glasses and wanders around his workspace, sifting through tools. “You feeling okay?”

Keith rakes a hand through his oily hair. He needs a shower (and some decent sleep and a hot meal and a soft blanket and _Shiro_ ). “Yeah.”

She nods. “You fell asleep while fixing something, that’s kinda funny,” she grins, poking him with her foot.

Keith shrugs and forces himself to his feet. He nudges a toolbox closed with the toe of his boot. “It happens." He feels more tired than he did before he fell asleep. A knot in his shoulder has wormed its way into his muscles, grating across tense fibers and making Keith cringe as he tries to stretch it out. He feels older than he used to. He feels worn.

"Lance and I were going to play some video games, if you wanted to join," Pidge offers, probably more out of pity than anything.

Keith runs a finger along Black's space-dusted exterior. It's bizarre to touch something that he dreamed of as a little kid, something that seemed so spectacularly distant back on earth. The moon from the desert sky was just that--it was above, a distance unreachable without years of schooling and a space suit. Both were made of money and discipline that Keith no longer had. His last chance was declared Missing In Action and he had resigned himself to searching, but it was kind of hard to look for something when the place it disappeared sat a million miles away.

Really, everything happened so quickly that night Shiro was found, and there hasn't been a space to breathe in-between since. It's hard to stop and appreciate something you've dreamed about so longingly when you're in the heart of intergalactic warfare that six months ago you didn't even know existed.

Pidge drops a screwdriver. "We've got an extra controller."

Keith chips away at a scuff from an asteroid belt with his fingernail. Some part of him wants to try to sleep tonight, maybe he can just trick his head into thinking it's still asleep if he goes to bed right now. "Nah. I was just gonna clean up and go to bed before I fell asleep here, actually."

"Yeah, looks like you could use it," Pidge says with that dorkily-endearing little nerd-grin. She's come so far in this galaxy wasteland, she's thrived and learned and bloomed. Keith wishes he could say the same for himself, wishes he could feel it in his gut, but all he feels is strained and sunken-in.

Keith puts on his jacket. The sleeves are cool on his arms.

"Hey." She pushes her glasses up with the crook of her finger. "How come you're avoiding Lance?"

Keith looks up. "What?"

"You've been avoiding Lance for the past few days, he's a little worried about it."

Keith tries to remember the past few days. There was the night in the shower and then... _nothing_ , it feels like. He hasn't been trying to avoid Lance, but...

But then again, he has.

He swallows and bows his head, fingers still resting on his lion. He doesn't know what to say. Lance saw something that he wasn't supposed to, Keith's still trying to put himself back together.

Pidge takes a step forward. "No, but for real. I think you need to talk to him. You know how he is."

Keith kind of doesn't, though. He doesn't know how Lance is, they were (apparently) enemies in school. Keith doesn't know things like that. He feels guilty for avoiding him, but... but what is he supposed to do?

"I'm serious, Keith."

"Alright, alright," Keith brushes her off. "Go play your _Kingdom Brothers Final Emblem_ or whatever."

Pidge scoffs and tosses a spare bolt into a toolbox. "That's not even a game and you know it." She stops just outside the doorway, almost a hesitation, an afterthought. "Just... “ she grins, changing her train of thought. “Try falling asleep in your bed for once, okay? Pretty soon I'm gonna have to fish you out of that upside-down pool or something. "

Keith smirks and tries not to wonder what she was going to say. "I'll try."

 

-

 

He finds a sandwich with a note on a plate in front of the door to his bedroom. Keith recognizes the handwriting.

 

_Keith-_

_You missed dinner. Enjoy this sandwich. Go to sleep!_

_-Hunk_

 

There's a drawing of one of the mice on the back of the note.

Keith finds a dull pencil.

 

_Hunk-_

_Thank you for the sandwich._

_-Keith_

 

The sandwich is delicious.

 

-

 

He goes to talk to Lance the next night. It's late, but Lance is probably still awake--Keith sometimes hears the video game noises until midnight or one AM. He reaches his door and stands there for a good five minutes before finally knocking.

Lance is hastily wiping away tears in the corner of his bedroom when the door opens.

_Oh._

This… _was not how he expected this to go._

He drops his arm from the place it knocked against the door moments before. He doesn't know what to do, Lance is crying and maybe he's-- _hurt_ , "Are you hurt?"

Lance shakes his head, "No, no. I'm fine," he says with a cracked grin. It's paper thin and Keith watches the tears roll down tan cheeks. Why Lance is being dismissive, he doesn't know. Something's very wrong, though, Keith feels it in his gut.

He hesitates in the doorway for a second before taking a timid step inside, doors sliding shut behind him. The room is dimmed with the light of the hallway gone, only a hazy lamp in the corner of the room casting an orangey-yellow glow. Keith stares at Lance, backed against the far wall, struggling to control his breathing. Keith doesn't know why Lance is...

Keith doesn't know why he's standing in Lance's room anymore. But he now realizes that the pinch in his stomach is worry.

What would Shiro do? What would Shiro say?

Keith doesn't think he should leave, it wouldn't feel right, so he approaches slowly and crouches down. This feels odd, this feels wrong, but then again, everything is odd and wrong, and Lance just saw him fall apart on a bathroom floor, the memory of it all still burns like bile in the back of Keith's throat.

So this is fine.

Lance sniffles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I didn't mean to avoid you lately," Keith says awkwardly.

Lance lets out an unexpected, genuine laugh through his tears. "I know. You can't help it."

Keith feels oddly victimized.

He hates this, though. Despite all of the hesitation in his mind, Keith knows that for sure. He's seen Lance cry, but this is... there's a certain sadness that lingers here. This is different. Lance doesn't want to be seen. Lance, the guy who does everything in his power to be noticed in this endless intergalactic shithole, is hiding, curled up against a wall. And it's uncanny and wrong and Keith feels like he should say something.

Lance lets out a shuddering, unsteady breath. More tears stream down his cheek and drop off of his jawline, he wraps his arms around his knees and wipes his face on jean-covered kneecaps. "I'm sorry if I'm keeping you up."

"It's fine," Keith says quickly, because he doesn't know why Lance is apologizing.

Lance's shoulders shake and he squeezes his eyes shut, Keith realizes after a second that he's not shaking, he's... he's sobbing.

Keith is utterly at a loss for what to do, he has never seen this much grief on any of his friends. His heart hurts, because--because this sucks, why would he want to see Lance crying, this is horrible. Lance... Lance should be laughing and saying stupid shit, Lance should be messing up the kitchen and fighting robots.

Lance's voice is sticky with tears and thick with melancholy that Keith knows everything and nothing about. "It just gets hard sometimes," he says softly. "You know?"

"Yeah, I know," Keith says back into the static quiet of the room. I know. He bites the inside of his cheek and settles down against the wall next to Lance because it seems like the right thing to do.

It's almost surreal, sitting next to a guy that he's seen only a few sides of. Keith isn't a people person, he guesses. He's not good with damage control, he's not anybody's "person". No one really asks for Keith when someone is crying, when someone is hurt. Keith is artillery, he doesn't heal and he doesn't comfort. He is there to fight and to survive. He doesn't bother with soft words or meaningful conversations, he can't calm someone down. There are different people in the world, Keith isn't caring.

Or. At least that's what he's been told.

He gets a better look at Lance's room this way. The covers on his bed are rumpled and hanging half-on the floor. A tablet and his robe sit piled next to each other, his lion slippers near the door. An old video game console sits dead-screen near the end of the bed. In the little niche carved above his pillow sits a small plant and a few pictures. Some look like Pidge and Hunk, there's one with the whole team, one with Lance taking a selfie and Keith scowling with the corners of his mouth threatening to tilt upward in the background.

Keith only knows of two people that have had real, printed-out pictures of him, two that he knows of. His dad had one on a dusty shelf near his desk growing up - a picture of Keith sitting on a roof somewhere and looking up at the sky. Shiro had a folded-up picture of him and Keith in their Galaxy Garrison uniforms, worn at the creases, Shiro with a bright smile and Keith with a little smirk.

And now there's three--Lance, with this stupid selfie, part of a haphazard collage that sits with him at night.

Keith blows out a sigh and knots a hand in his hair. He doesn't know why life seems speckled right now. He wishes that maybe the team didn't care so much about each other. And he wishes he was still in his desert shack sometimes. And he wishes that Shiro was here.

There's a million stars surrounding him, each another wish, but Keith doesn't think he has the right. These stars are meant for families back on earth, those desert-shackers with their dreams of longing and acceptance. These stars are meant for girls with missing brothers and fathers, princesses from extinct races.

These stars aren't meant for Keith.

Lance sniffles and wipes his face with the cuff of his jacket. He blows out a shaky breath and balances his chin on his knees.

Keith feels lost. Lance's face looks defeated as he stares down the floor with sad eyes, he's carving a hole in the air that blossoms with gray-tinged ocean waves and salty tears. Keith isn't meant for these moments, these moments are for best friends and royal dignitaries. Keith is the rough friend, gravelly and impulsive. He isn't meant to see these strips of hardwood under the carpet of these people and their quirks, he's not the type of person that is supposed to see the bare soul.

This moment is so bluntly intimate that it hurts his head. And just like that, they're back on the shower floor, Keith's vomit on the tile and Lance's concerned face. Keith didn't know what to do then and he doesn't know now.

Maybe he never will.

"Keith?"

"Yeah?"

Lance licks his lips and continues to stare at the floor. "It's okay to need help," Lance says softly. And that's supposed to be Keith's line, but everything seems to be backward right now.

_It's okay to need help._ Keith likes to think that he knows that, too. But he lived alone for two years, not needing anyone. And to need someone now, well. It feels wrong. No one should have to hear his problematic emotions and feelings that aren't valid and thoughts that are depressing and scary, nightmares that don't make sense, words that don't feel right. It's pathetic to say, and Keith knows it, he knows he sounds like a loner because he pretty much is.

It's okay to need help.

Is it?

Lance sniffles, tears gone, a rounded, crumbled face left in their wake. Wiping his cheeks with his hands, he takes a deep breath and lets it go, like a release of some sort. He turns his head and gives Keith a lopsided, pathetic smile, small but still genuine.

Keith begins to think that Lance goes deeper than he thought.

 

\--

 

He finds himself in the training room a few nights later, replaying the week. Lance is okay again and teases Keith about his hair at dinner, which Keith shows up to, much to Pidge's delight. She catches his eye sometimes and gives him a softened, knowing smile when she thinks no one is looking. Keith pretends that he didn't go back to his room and lie in bed for hours after him and Lance talked, like he didn't pull apart every word in his head that was spoken until it was five in the morning. He pretends that there isn't a sick mountain of dread that builds up in his stomach every time he thinks about Shiro, he sometimes pretends that the shower floor incident never happened and that he never talked to Lance, because things are easier that way. Things are easier if he just doesn't acknowledge his problems, pretends that nothing happened.

All in all, Keith's coping skills continue to remain bar-none.

There's a pressure behind his eyes, a throbbing in his head. He feels like he doesn't know anything anymore. His mind is a confusing puddle of emotions and uncertainty, ruthlessness occasionally tries to push its head through the wall of misguided thoughts. You're fine, he tells himself. It's just another off night.

But these nights are really, really off.

"End training sequence."

Keith ends up kicking the bot halfway across the room when it goes limp in its spot. Metal clangs against one of the walls, a sound that would be quite loud if it weren't for the blood roaring in his ears. He plants both feet on the ground, fuming, and whips around to face the culprit. "What the hell?"

Coran stands a few yards away with his hands folded behind his back, picturesque dignitary, looking at Keith like he knows all of his secrets. "It's the middle of the night, my boy, you need to get some rest! We can't have our Black Paladin falling asleep in the middle of battle, now can we?" he asks jovially, though the wrinkles around his eyes speak of tired concern and words unsaid.

Keith drops his fists and sighs when he realizes that it's only Coran. Only the advisor. Even though he's so much more than that, even though he's worth all of their lives, over and over again for the times he’s saved them.

Keith knows that Coran isn't here to fight. Keith knows that Coran tries his best. Sometimes it's hard to remember that this is a man that just watched his home and his entire race collapse before his eyes. A man who lost his best friend, who wasn't allowed a second to grieve before he was thrown into war with a bunch of kids.

Keith sometimes forgets, but he tries hard to remember.

He attempts to roll some of the tension out of his shoulders. His breathing is starting to return to normal again, but his temper still pokes at his sternum. He doesn't need this. "Coran, come on, I'm fine, you--"

"Keith." Coran steps forward and places a surprisingly firm hand on Keith's shoulder, grip warm. He speaks a bit more seriously, eyes still kind and knowing, words calm. "You need to rest."

Keith deflates. His pulse rings in his ears as the adrenaline leaves his body. He can feel the creak of every bone, every joint, the bags under his eyes when he blinks, carved into his face by fluorescent light and holo-pads. He sighs and sheaths his knife, letting his arms drop to hang at his sides.

Coran leads him out of the training arena with a gentle hand still on his shoulder. They begin to walk the halls of the quiet castle in comfortable silence.

Forced out of battle, Keith feels heavy on his feet. The muscles in his legs tremble, he feels like he's been on his feet all day. He has been on his feet all day.

"You remind me of King Alfor, in that respect," Coran says after a few moments of walking in silence. "He used to roam the castle at night just as you often do."

Keith tries to let his mind loose from the day's events, tries to release the pressure in his temples and the aching of his neck. This is the first time he's been compared to a king. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," Coran replies. "I'd have to force him back to his chambers at all times of the night. That man was..." Coran snaps his fingers, mustache quirking. "Oh, what's the earthen word?"

"Nocturnal?" Keith supplies.

"Yes, nocturnal! He was nocturnal with the best of them," Coran muses. "Though, he eventually knew when he needed to rest. You? Not so much. "

Keith doesn't say anything to that. They walk past the giant windows on the side of the ship, stretching ten feet high and ten feet wide. Space drifts lazily by, no danger or problems visible for the time being. It's quietly beautiful, if you're in the right mood, but right now Keith just feels a little distant.

They reach the hallway where Keith's room is located, where everyone else is probably asleep. He turns to bid Coran goodnight, but Coran beats him to it.

"Keith, my boy." Coran studies him. "King Alfor was a superb leader, and I see that side of him in you as well."

Keith shrugs it off and looks at the ground. "Thanks."

"Keith," Coran repeats, waiting until Keith tilts his chin up from the ground to meet his gaze.

"Yeah?"

Coran pauses and stares directly into his soul, past the walls and the borders and the bullshit when he says again,

"You are doing well."

Something blooms in Keith's stomach. He feels himself choking up with sudden emotion that squeezes its way out of mental barriers. Christ, everyone in this castle just refuses to quit. He turns his eyes to stare at the floor again and tries to keep his voice steady when he says, "Thank you, Coran."

Coran pats his shoulder. "Rest for a while, you hear me? And please, quit placing so much pressure on yourself."

Keith nods. "Thanks, Coran. Have a good night."

"You know, Shiro would be proud," Coran tells him, not an afterthought but an addition, almost like a gentle reminder. He gives Keith a warm smile.

Keith manages a tired one of his own. A flood of sadness pools in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah, I hope so," he says truthfully.

He wakes up from a nightmare after five hours of sleep and goes back to training.

 

\--

 

They're on a mission when he lets his mind drift for a second, and he gets hit.

_Hard._

The blow was meant for Allura, actually, but Keith didn’t notice it until it was too late because he wasn’t paying attention, because he was thinking about Shiro. A flicker in his peripheral, he registers the end of a battering rod from the shadows on a direct path for Allura’s skull.

Call it instinct, call it intuition, he glances over and he _moves._ Not even realizing what he’s doing until there's a sick, dull thump and Allura’s surprised yelp and he finally connects it all. The thump?

It's his skull.

Everything erupts into white stars.

His ears buzz and pain _pain pain--_

_Pain--_

Keith's never hit his head this hard in his life.

He might be screaming, he honestly can’t tell. The world rings, his vision is gone and replaced with pitchy darkness. He feels his knees absorb the force of his fall, but it's distant and uncontrollable. Shaking fingers come to claw at his head, his brain, he realizes that they’re his. On the floor, he curls in on himself and tastes blood.

"Okay, okay," there's people touching him, touching his hands, "don't touch it, you're okay," he's breathing so hard and blood is pooling in his mouth, he doesn't know anything except pain, _pain pain pain white-hot pain_

He's forced down to the ground. "Stay down, you're okay." Somebody is rubbing a hand on his shoulder, Keith has a hand knotted in his hair and he's never been in this much pain _pain pain pain_

There are noises around him, but they're quiet and tinny. Distantly, " _We need to go. Forget about the intel, he got hit._ "

Keith can hear himself letting out a wheezed little whine with each pant, lungs heaving. He knows he's crying. His teeth don't feel okay.

"Keith? Keith, can you hear me? I know it hurts, breathe through the pain," he hears muffled, softly soothing, lilting and feminine, pinched and panicked.

Keith feels like he's going to die, he doesn't know what's happening, he can't see, _he can't see he can't see_. Everything is leeching darkness, climbing and suffocating.

The person is persistent. Hands are still rubbing his back. "Keith? Stay with me, we're getting some help. I've got you."

He gains a few his senses and realizes he's being cradled against someone's chest. He's still breathing hard, still panicking, every pain receptor in his skull is exploding. His limbs are tingling, his face is numb. Everything is muddled and terrifying.

"We have to move, Keith. I'm going to pick you up now, I know it hurts. Stay with me, okay?" They run a hand up and down his arm, he feels himself being picked up under the knees, but he still feels pain _pain pain pain pain_

Keith lets out a choked moan. He feels so dizzy, he doesn't feel okay at all. Something's really wrong.

His mind drifts back to the time that he almost cut his thumb off in a shop class back at the Garrison. He remembers the blood everywhere, how he couldn't speak for a second because he was so shocked, how he got dizzy and his instructor had to sit him down and wrap a towel around his thumb and shove his head between his knees. It was scary but he remembers Shiro came to watch him get stitches, and he made Keith laugh, even though Keith's thumb was bleeding and he had practically cut it to the bone. Shiro had been there, but...

Is Shiro here now? Keith can't even remember where he is, he thinks Shiro is here. Shiro would be here.

"It's okay," someone whispers into his hair. Is it Shiro? It sounds like something Shiro would say. The world is moving too much, he still can't see. Everything is bright blackness, punchy and anemic.

“Shiro,” he whimpers, clawing at the person’s shoulders, _it’s Shiro, it has to be--_

Keith feels the acid burn of bile in the back of his throat. He tries to swallow, to choke it down. Everything suddenly becomes cold. His mouth waters.

"’m gonna throw up."

He feels himself pitching forward. The wind stops and he feels something solid beneath his knees.

"Oh--okay. It's okay, let it out. It's okay."

Keith does.

It's horrific. He opens his mouth and heaves, spits, he feels his insides turn inside out and he doesn't know what's down and what's up. The bile forces it's way up his esophagus, he feels violated. He's downright sobbing by now, the world is on fire and spinning. He chokes on the bitter content of his stomach, it comes up like burning gravel.

"It's okay, Keith. It's okay. It's okay."

His back is rubbed and they're being gentle but everything is turning and twisting. The nausea is absolutely relentless, he can't stop gagging. Nothing comes up anymore. Keith feels like he might drown and he still doesn't know what is happening because everything is underwater and far away.

He feels his elbows give out and somebody grabs him and he's floating again. He can feel skin-deep sensations, but he's nauseous and terrified and in so much _pain pain pain_. "Shiro," he tries to say, but his mouth doesn't work and he's dying, he can't see everything is black--

"Keith--"

He gives into darkness and drifts.

 

-

 

The world spins in and then zooms out. He falls out of a pod into Allura's arms.

"You were calling for Shiro," she says to him later, after Coran has looked him over and deemed him healthy. He's been out for around four hours, from what he's been told it was pretty scary for all parties involved. His head still aches, but he's told to rest and that he should feel 100% by the morning.

The green mush in his mouth turns sour. "What?"

Allura sighs. It's just them at the kitchen counter, perched on barstools that remind Keith of the diner in the space mall. She's still in her armor, stray tufts of white hair that's fallen out of her ponytail curl around her face. She looks completely worn out. "You were calling out for him when Hunk was carrying you back to the lions."

"Oh." Keith pushes around the food-mash in his bowl. He doesn't remember it; he doesn't really remember anything except for shoving Allura out of the way. He doesn't think he really wants to.

She glances at the countertop like she’s in pain. "You really scared us, Keith," Allura says softly.

Keith bites his lip. He looks at the food goop. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," Allura says.

"Are you okay?"

She looks confused. "What?"

He drags his spoon. "I pushed you out of the way, right?"

"Well, yes," she frowns, "but I'm fine."

"Good."

She stares at her hands. "Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Keith lets the spoon drop in the bowl (he hates food goop, and it hasn't changed) and looks Allura in the eye. She gives him a tight-lipped smile, still genuine despite her sad eyes. He can't help the small grin that dances on his lips at the unnecessary sentiment. "Any time, princess."

She stands up and takes the bowl from him, lets her hand linger on his shoulder, older sister, haunted eyes that she conceals with a breath. A neutral calm spreads across her face, she’s pulled it back in, closed the doors and places the mask back on that she’s so carefully crafted these past few months.

His head hurts. He wants to apologize, what for, he doesn’t know. For everything, he supposes. He needs to thank Allura for everything she does.

He takes a breath to say something but the words die on his tongue.

"Get some rest," she says softly.

 

-

 

_Keith-_

_The mice requested I make you another sandwich. I caught them waiting with you while you were in the pod, it was adorable and I wish you could've seen it. It's PB &J, I didn't know how long you'd be out of it and I don't think PB&J goes bad. But I thought I'd leave it, just in case. You were too busy chilling in a pod while I made dinner. Smh. Glad you're okay, bud. _

_-Hunk_

 

\--

 

_Hunk-_

_Thank you for the sandwich, and thank you for carrying me back to the lions when I was concussed._

_-Keith_

 

-

 

They find another lead on Shiro a few days later, and this time Keith is convinced it's real. Sitting on the bridge, he stares at the signal, heart burning, and hopes. Prays. _It has to be real,_ _please be real._

 

-

 

(It's not.)

 

-

 

When they return, he struggles to dismiss them past the lump in his throat with promise of a debriefing tomorrow that they all know isn’t going to happen.

Black provides stoic isolation in the pilot’s chair after they’ve docked. The comms go down and everyone leaves to shower and sleep. Keith sits there, in the dim emergency lighting of the cockpit, in a Lion that isn’t his, that manages to remind him of it every time he sets his hands on controls that burn with the touch of _Shiro Shiro Shiro_. Black still humms, he can feel her tender empathy in the back of his mind.

He places his elbows on his knees and his helmet on the floor and he cries.

The moment is short. He pulls himself back together and stumbles into an empty common room on sore, unsteady legs. Emotionally, he's depleted; mentally, he's gone. His brain is fried, but it still runs through the past events. He and Lance had fought before they arrived, Keith was accused of being reckless again. This time, he didn't put anyone else in danger, though, so it was fine, but Lance yelled him about hard-headedness and self-preservation and Keith yelled back about something-or-other, and looking back it all just blurs together in stressed, weathered colors that run again and again. Keith doesn't know what self-preservation is, apparently. He doesn't think he ever will.

Of course, this was all before they came up empty-handed.

Pidge figured it out first, and she looked at Keith with pain-filled eyes and he immediately knew that the signal had fallen through.

It sunk in, and Lance had reached out a hand and opened his mouth like he was trying to say something but Keith couldn’t hear it past the hot anguish rolling through his heart. The mood was somber as they traveled back, no one said anything after Keith told them to report back to the castle.

He stands in the hallway just outside the common room entrance. He’s changed out of his armor, but now he doesn’t know what he’s doing. If he came here for a reason, he doesn’t remember it.

It's almost manic. He thinks he might even be close to hallucinating, he feels genuinely broken, he's so tired he's about to start seeing things that aren't there. Hours of hoping and praying with every fibre of his being have left him empty and stone-cold. He can’t remember the last time he slept. His eyelids are heavy and he's so frayed, he just keeps unraveling and unraveling.

A shocky-sick feeling washes over him, settles into the skin of his arms and down his back. He places a shaking hand on the wall and swallows thickly, head starting to swim.

He gingerly makes his way to the couch and settles slowly, lets his body give out and his cheek loll against the fabric. He's on his side, staring at the floor, head fuzzy, tears collecting at his waterline. His eyes shut and he feels a little sick, a little lightheaded. He's hot and cold, he just wishes he could sink into the floor and make it all stop.

He vaguely thinks he should’ve made his way to the kitchen, he needs to eat something. Funny how basic human needs become such a hindrance when the mind’s consumed by something unreachable. He drank water when he was changing, though, small sips of a tepid pouch. He just needs to rest for a minute. Just a second. _Keep it together._

Shiro wouldn't unravel. He would keep it together, Shiro was always able to keep things together, why can't Keith keep this team together for _Shiro, oh,_ _God_ \--

Mission chaos flickers through his mind. Shouting and space explosions and the sweat on his hairline, barking orders and Lance yelling and everyone yelling and just _yelling yelling yelling_.

His breath hitches and he exhales shakily. He lets his eyelids slip shut, a tear soaking into the fabric of the couch.

He inhales sharply and flinches. His boot is being tugged off.

"Chill, it's just me," Hunk says calmly, undeterred. He's changed out of his armor like Keith has, movements tired but not as tired as Keith feels. Hunk undoes the last of the buckles on Keith's left foot and pulls the boot off to reveal a worn, gray sock.

"What're you doing?" Keith says groggily. His head aches, he's still on the couch, he doesn't know how much time has passed. Maybe hours, maybe days, maybe seconds. Time is such a quagmire when it comes to the galaxy.

Hunk's hair is still wet, he probably just got out of his post-mission shower. So Keith has been asleep for a half hour, maybe. Hunk picks up the other foot and starts to undo the boot on that one as well, not looking up from his work. "You looked uncomfortable," he replies, revealing Keith's other sock. "Plus, nobody likes to sleep with shoes on. It's not cozy."

_Cozy._ It's almost enough to make Keith laugh. The hurt is still there, now that he’s slightly coherent, the mission replays, he lets his head fall back to his arm and his eyes slip shut again if only to push it away with sleep again. He feels a gust of air and a blanket settles on top of him, settles to the angles and the lean muscle of his frame. Hunk pats his leg and sinks down on the cushion near Keith's head. "You okay?"

"Just tired," Keith mumbles. He shuffles his position to lie on his back and it works for a moment but quickly becomes uncomfortable. Tension has curled in his neck and shoulders, the lights are too bright, his eyelids too thin, nothing is comfortable. He curses Hunk for waking him up, even though his feet do feel better.

It won’t let up. He replays it over and over, curses himself for getting his hopes up, for not looking hard enough, for being so stupid. _For not keeping it together_. Fifteen minutes later and a growing lump in his throat, he sits up. His eyelids feel swollen, frustration prickles in the back of his chest. The tension in his neck and shoulders presses like a bruise. He picks at his jeans and lets his head fall back against the cushions.

Hunk looks up from his book and laughs softly. "Sorry, man. You're sleeping on a couch, what did you expect?"

Keith shakes his head, mostly at himself, feeling more defeated than he'd like to. His head fogs with negative emotions, he can’t even _go to sleep_ right. He throws off the blanket and moves to get up, he's got shit to do. Frustration mingles with the other emotions, full-force swirling through his mind. He’s useless. _He’s useless_. He’s an idiot, and Shiro’s still fucking gone, Keith just-- he should be reviewing the mission, scanning feeds and checking on the search beacons he's found and activated for any sign of Shiro. He should be making sure their last mission was ended securely, he needs to--

Hunk places a warm hand on his chest. It's unexpected and tactile and Keith stops moving. He realizes that there are tears in his eyes.

"Alright, wait. Just--hold on a sec." Keith watches as Hunk places his book face-down on the empty cushion and reaches over Keith, pulling the blanket back over him. Hunk looks at him, at his eyes filled with tears, and then he picks up his book and pulls Keith's head to rest against his shoulder.

Keith is too surprised and too tired to speak for a moment. It takes a second for everything to click together, and he needs to go, he--

“You’re alright.”

He stops. A feeling blooms in his stomach, the blanket is warm on top of him, his chest twinges when he realizes what is happening.

The forming lump in his throat turns into a boulder. A tear spills over and lands on Hunk’s sleeve, but if he notices he doesn’t let on.

Keith knows that Hunk is a tactile person. He's seen him and Lance dramatically fling themselves around each other, he's not blind to the shoulder-pats or the way that Hunk ruffles Pidge's hair sometimes after she figured out a problem. He sees the way Hunk places an arm around Lance's shoulder when Lance's smile falters, he watches the fist-bumps and hi-fives with Coran, one time he even walked in on Hunk teaching the mice how to braid Allura's hair. But Keith's not that person, he doesn't seek regard in the form of physical contact because he doesn't need to. He _hasn't_ needed to.

But it's an off night again.

Somehow Hunk maneuvers so that Keith ends up pressed against Hunk's left side, unconsciously curled in and seeking warmth. His pride is down, he's stripped, he's got nowhere to hide right now and the tears keep flowing.

Keith doesn't understand how some people can be so gentle in nature. Hunk is one of those people; easily scared yet wholly fearless. Unintentionally caring, nurturing and concrete, he isn't going anywhere and he wants you to know it. He _needs_ you to know it.

Hunk pats his knee. "Just rest for a while, man. You okay?"

The lump in Keith's throat is hard to swallow past. He tries to dredge up the usual excuse, push it off, _deflect, deflect_. But something goes awry and raw feeling takes over instinct.

He shakes his head. Like a radical expression of self-discovery, though it's been written in bold print above his head the entire time. He starts to get choked up, he's so tired. He can feel the rumble of Hunk's voice.

"You're doing alright, buddy. We're all here for you."

Footsteps from the hallway come closer until Lance appears in the doorway. He lingers for a moment with hesitant eyes and gives them both a glum smile.

Keith would wish Lance away, but he’s too exposed, too weak. Hunk’s already pulled him apart with his minimalistic comfort, so he blinks another tear with a heart that weighs like lead and watches as Lance slowly walks closer.

“Finally aboard the Cuddle Hunk Train, huh?” he says softly, smiling to himself as he settles on the other side of Hunk.

“It’s a good place to be,” Hunk murmurs without looking up from his book.

Keith sniffles and stares at the pattern on the blanket. Another wave and his heart aches more, it’s like a barometer or a pot of boiling water and the tears come faster, more and more until he realizes that his shoulders have started to shake. It twists like a dull knife in his gut, _you were so close, you thought you were so close._  

The blanket falls and Keith stares straight ahead at the floor, Lance looks over and his shoulders fall. He leans over and pulls the blanket back up, letting his hand rest on Keith’s shoulder for a moment. “We will find him,” he whispers solemnly, mournfully. More tears fall down Keith’s face, and Lance’s voice breaks. “We _will_.”

Looking at Lance’s face through blurry tears, it hits, like it has time and time before.

These people care about him _so much_.

And it burns.

A tear drops onto the page of Hunk's book. Hunk holds him a little tighter. 

_Fuck._ That's why he's still here. Keith maybe gets it, at least a little bit. In this muddled state of mind, this emotional, depleted mindset where nothing seems to be comprehensible, things somehow become a bit clearer. He might understand the answer to the _What the hell am I doing here_ question, the _Why am I still in space when Shiro isn't even here anymore_ question:

Because... because here is where his family is, too.

And he's tried so hard to do this by himself but he wonders if maybe he just can't. Maybe he wasn't supposed to.

He sniffles and presses his head against Hunk's chest, leans into his friend, Hunk pats his back with a large, gentle hand. Pidge appears out of literally nowhere and wordlessly dabs at his face with tissues, pressing against his side in a way that only she could.

"Thanks," Keith whispers when Pidge is finished mopping up his tears. His heart feels like it's been shattered and taped up again. It dawns on him that despite their general penchant for madness, his friends are very good at fixing things.

The tears subside. He focuses on the weight of the people around him rather than the weight of the universe. Hunk sighs contentedly and flips a page. Pidge leans against his bicep and Lance offers a small, wistful smile across Hunk’s broad chest.

He’s still gone, but this is what Shiro would have wanted, Keith thinks. He would have wanted Keith to seek the support that their motley crew so carefully gives, to let himself be fragile and to let himself be helped. And in the aftermath of another day crumbled, in the wreckage of another fall, Keith looks at his friends and thinks that although it might not be okay, at least he's not alone.

And truthfully, he never really was.

 

-

 

(Space is cold, but there are warm beings.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me your stories but don't leave out the lies  
> cause I know I got some problems and I'm open to mine  
> so we all need some time just to settle down  
> won't you come around cause I  
> never can leave it alone
> 
> Violins, Quinn XCII


End file.
